


Gap

by cal1brations



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Fingering, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7656535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cal1brations/pseuds/cal1brations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“America, what are you doing right now?”</p>
</blockquote>France calls at an... inopportune time. They make the most of it, anyway.
            </blockquote>





	Gap

**Author's Note:**

> FrUS is my otp. I love them. I love them being together. I love everything about them being together. I had to write something for them, there just _isn't enough_. I am so thirsty.

_“France, I—“_

_France is smiling up at America from between his legs. He’s settled down on his knees—an odd place for someone as regal as France to be, America thinks, but what does he really know? He’s never been in a position like this, not with anyone,_ especially _not someone like France._

 _Thankfully, France has vowed to take good care of him, show him what he needs to know—and he’s done a_ magnifique _job of it, if America is allowed to say so._

_“Is something the matter, America?” France asks, accent thick and a little slurred; it’s probably from all the alcohol, but America doesn’t mind. France is still as attentive and kind as he is sober, so America figures it just doesn’t affect him that much in general._

_America swallows dryly, watching France unbutton his trousers with skillful fingers. “No, it’s just, I-I don’t know what I’m supposed to, um—!”_

_He’s cut off by France guiding his erection out from its cloth confines, admiring it with a quirk of his brow, a smug smile on his lips as he wraps his hand around it. America likes the feeling of France’s hand there_ a lot _, and he feels mortified when he bucks his hip into France’s touch. The fact France laughs at the reaction only makes America feel worse._

_“S-sorry—um, I just—“_

_France smiles up at him, as sincere and sweet as every other time he’s looked at America. Not like America is a helpless child (like someone_ else _—), but like the young man he is, a young man who just needs a little reassurance that he’s not making himself out to be a total fool._

 _“Do you trust me?” France asks, letting go of America’s cock to let his hand rest on America’s thigh. “Allies trust one another, America. I would not hurt you—_ never _like this.”_

_The words soothe the rising anxiety America has, and he nods a little. France has been nothing but nice to him, nothing but understanding and kind and gentle. He doesn’t have ill will towards America—unless he’s just very good at hiding it—and America finds himself smiling, relaxing a little as he sits back on his palms. “I trust you,” he agrees softly._

_“_ _Très_ _bien,” France murmurs, smile turning coy as his hand returns to America’s cock, holding him gently. “Then I will thank you properly for that trust, mon cher. Let me take care of everything,” he explains, just before he lowers his lips to America’s cock, swallowing him down with ease—_

America wakes up slowly from the dream, thinking of the sensation of France’s mouth around his cock; the guy is good at oral. Amongst everything else, of course, but America is _particularly_ fond of oral, namely from that experience in specific.

He’s still a little sleepy, but when he checks his phone, it’s just barely after nine o’clock. He doesn’t actually have to get out of bed until 9:30, and since he has something a little more devious in mind than just going back to sleep, he reaches to his phone on the nightstand to switch off his alarm before pulling his arm back under the warm covers.

His cock juts up proudly, still enticed by dream-France sucking him off, and since America figures he can enjoy himself a little, he wiggles a bit to take off his boxers, leaving him naked under the blankets. He licks his lips and shuts his eyes, trying to get lost in the thought of France, France’s mouth wrapped around his cock, France moaning around him, France fondling his balls—all of it’s good, and America sighs as he reaches to take his dick in one hand, the other going to cup his sac as he begins to stroke.

The pace is leisurely, but still enjoyable. He can practically _hear_ France whispering against the shell of ear about how _good things come to those who wait, America_ , which makes him shiver as he thumbs the tip of his cock teasingly. He even goes as far as to breathe a whisper of “ _France_ …” as he picks up his pace a little, rolling his hips into the motion of his hand—

 _You used to call me on my cell phone_ _  
Late night when you need my love—_

His phone ringing—with a ringtone that is just that, a _ring_ tone (which is not a jarring song on its own, but in the middle of this, it’s the most shocking song America has ever heard in his life), and not his alarm going off—makes America jolt. His hand doesn’t leave its task (mostly out of shock, of course!) as he reaches to yank the phone off his nightstand, not even looking at the ID (the ringtone is a custom one, but America is too tired and frantic to remember just whose it is) before he swipes his thumb across the screen to answer, hoping he doesn’t sound too… suspicious.

“Uh! Hello?”

“America? Why do you sound so surprised?” France asks with a smirk that is audible. “You told me to call you when I got home from my meeting tonight, did you not?”

Well, shit. He definitely did tell France to do that, if he could, please, because it was nice to talk to him, even for just a little bit. They haven’t seen each other in person in over a month, mostly because they’ve both been busy with internal affairs and their schedules haven’t overlapped much to give them the chance to be actually, physically be together, but technology is a _wonderful_ thing—even if France isn’t so good with it—and America is grateful he can manage a call in the times they can’t be together.

“I—no, I did! I did!” America hurries, and his dick is still in his hand and, really, he can’t tell if this is the worst thing to happen to him or just the worst thing to ever happen _ever_. “The phone just surprised me when it rang—caught me off-guard! Heh.”

“Ah,” Frances says, kind of like he doesn’t believe it, but America just waits for him to say something else. “Well then, how are you, _mon_ _cher_?”

America swallows, trying to wet his dry throat (dry from panting, gasping, struggling not to moan--) as he forces himself to focus on answering France and not his erection still in his hand; he can’t help but give it a little squeeze, a promise for later, just a second. “I, uh, I’m good! It’s pretty early still, ha, so—“

“You sound quite distracted,” France comments lightly, not exactly lascivious or anything, but America knows he’s edging to prying territory. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No!” America blurts out, completely suspicious and horrible, and he winces at his own lack of tact. But, fuck, it’s barely nine in the morning, he’s only been awake for less than half an hour and he’s still _super fucking hard_ —“You’re not interrupting anything, babe,” America adds quickly to cover up his earnest. “Guess I’m still getting over the phone ringing, haha! It scared the shit outta me.”

Frances hums in acknowledgement, and America listens to the quiet sound of metal clinking in the background—France is probably heading inside now. He hears the door open and close, a little bit of rustling, and he realizes France is probably waiting for America to ask how he is doing, of course, because that would be a normal thing to do.

It’s really hard to think when he can feel his own pulse thrumming in his cock.

“How are you? Or—I guess, how was work? You said that—“

“Work is work— _qu'est-ce_ _que_ _c'est_ ,” France sighs, sounding a little disinterested. America sort of wants to apologize for his lack of attention, but he kind of also wants to just get back to jerking off because this is his morning off and he was feeling so good and if France can’t be here then America—

Well. France is _here_ , in a sense, America thinks slowly. France is talking to him, and it’s not as good as France being here in person (being here in person would be best, because he definitely wouldn’t leave America to splutter with his dick in his hand for very long at all), but France’s voice is still one of the things America loves, even if he’s just talking about work and mundane things. Maybe he could just…

America fixes the phone a little, to cradle it against his shoulder and ear. He allows his hand to move in slow, careful strokes, so careful it’s almost not even pleasurable, but he has to make sure he can manage conversation while he does it, so a slow start it is.

“That doesn’t sound like you had a good day at all,” America counters with a little smile, letting his eyes slip shut as he listens as intently as possible, waiting to be fed France’s every word.

France laughs quietly at the teasing, and it sounds good, _really_ good, even over the phone. America squeezes himself a little to keep himself under control a bit as France speaks again.

“I don’t want to waste time discussing work with you when it isn’t necessary,” France explains, and America could melt at the smile he hears in France’s voice, smooth and wonderful like milk and honey. “Work _pales_ in comparison to anything else, especially when it comes to you, _Amérique_.”

America hums, and he hopes it sounds more like a hum of agreement more than a hum that is actually a bit-back moan, sealed in his mouth. France is always pretty sweet on him, the master of buttering up, but because America’s head is already filled with filthy things, France mumbling praises at him isn’t helping America’s self-restraint any. His hand tries to speed up, but he manages to reign it in a little, manages to control himself to make up, in part, for the little sound he made by accident.

“Or, uh,” he stammers out after a probably-awkward pause, “Thanks? I mean—ha, glad you think I’m better than meetings and work!”

France makes another hum like before, that kind of _I don’t believe that for one second_ sort of hum, and America feels his heart hammering as he waits for France to say something. Hopefully not something incriminating, because America thinks he might honestly, truly die of embarrassment if France catches him red-handed. Not that France hasn’t caught him in more… compromising positions, to say the least, but this is definitely a first.

“America, what are you doing right now?” France asks casually, and America squeezes his eyes shut because he can perfectly, _perfectly_ imagine the coy smirk on France’s lips, that quirk of his right eyebrow that he gives when he’s being skeptical and sneaky and— _fuck_.

America forces a laugh. “Whaaat do you mean? I’m just laying here in bed—it’s only nine in the morning here, babe.”

“ _Just_ lying in bed? All by yourself?”

 _I’d rather you be here with me_ , America doesn’t say, no matter how much he wants to. He wants it to be France’s hand around his cock, or his mouth, or—something, anything. He wants France here, wants to smell his shampoo on his pillows and feel France’s beard scrape against his chin while they kiss and kiss and kiss. He wants France to whisper America’s name against his ear and lick America’s cum off his fingers and ride America like there’s nothing he’s meant to do but that alone.

But he’s already given himself up, America thinks when he realizes just how long he’s been thinking about France being here with him, and notices he’s been stroking himself a little while he got lost in thought. France definitely probably knows now.

“ _All_ by myself,” America breathes, and lets France hear the pout, the want in his voice. “It’s real lonesome here. The sheets are all cold.”

“But of _course_ it is, _amour_ ,” France agrees sympathetically, but America just knows this is the part where France would be closing the space between them, sliding his palms up America’s chest to loop around his neck and pull them close. Still, America loves the sound of France’s voice almost as much as his touch, the way his accent swallows up the word “course”, and all America can think about for a full few seconds is how _badly_ he wants France’s foreign tongue in his mouth, among other places.

“I can only _imagine_ what you’ve been up to, if that is the case,” France adds, sly and smooth in all his usual ways, and America gnaws on his lower lip to keep himself from groaning; he’s embarrassed because he’s been caught, but France isn’t purposely embarrassing him, just trying to rile him up and—

It occurs to America at that moment, stupidly, that France has probably been feeling just as alone as America has.

“Why don’t you paint a clearer picture for me, _Amérique_?”

His cheeks are burning, but America swallows quietly, opening his eyes to stare up at the ceiling. He’s never really done something like this before—sure, he and France have sent some far from innocent messages with each other, and even some pictures, but this kind of thing is new. It’s easy to type out all the filthy things he wants to say, but actually _saying_ them is pretty hard, especially when his comparison is to _France_ , the master of all things sexual.

“I just—um, woke up like this,” America tells him honestly. He uses his hand currently not around his cock to fix the phone on his shoulder, switches to speaker phone so he doesn’t have to worry about not hearing France’s voice should he jostle his phone too much. “I had a dream about, uh… a long time ago.”

France does not laugh, like America might have expected him to do, but practically _purrs_ in response; America can imagine him toying with his beard, and that thought quickly morphs into America thinking about France’s beard tickling the insides of his thighs and under his balls while France sucks him down to the hilt—

“—all you’re going to tell me? I feel cheated,” France is saying, and America lets out a breathy little laugh as he traces the tips of his fingers over the underside of his cock, teasingly so, feeling his hips threaten to hitch up into his own touch, like he truly has no self-control. If France were _really_ here, America knows he really wouldn’t be able to control himself from basking in France’s affection.

“I mean, I don’t remember _all_ of it,” America clarifies, smiling a little as his gaze falls down to his cock, watching his hand slowly move over himself, which somehow makes him feel even more sensitive to his own teasing touches. “Just… what I really remember from it was, uh, you sucking me off for the first time.”

“ _Ah_ ,” France sighs (moans?), “but it was truly an honor—and quite the delight,” he says, low enough that it sends a shiver right down America’s spine, straight to his dick, making him groan a little at the thought. Just thinking about France smiling up at him—then or now, it doesn’t matter—with that cocky little quirk of his eyebrows before he takes America’s cock between his lips, laving him in warmth and tight, impossibly tight heat. A mere thought doesn’t do the experience justice in the slightest.

“ _France_ ,” America sighs, embarrassed at how sexual the word sounds as it falls out of his mouth, but he can’t help it—he certainly can’t stop it now. His dick is a little wet at the tip with pre, and he slides his thumb over the head with a stuttered breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he desperately tries to imagine his own pseudo-France here to make him feel as divine as he always makes him feel.

“What are you doing?” France asks, his voice not exactly gruff per se but… insistent. America hears a little bit of shuffling in the background, and he is a little surprised with just how _badly_ he hopes France is hastily trying to catch up, to touch himself to the sound of America’s voice in turn.

America swallows, tries to keep his voice at an acceptable level. “Thinking about how much I want you here. _God_ ,” he sighs, giving himself another little squeeze, “I want you here.”

France hums, low in his throat, and America thinks he can hear that coy little smirk he usually gets when he knows just how desperate America is. If he were here, _actually_ here, America wouldn’t hesitate to yank him close, grind up against him and demand more. He can even see that smug little looks France would have, smoothing his hands down to touch—

“And what would you do with me?” France asks lowly, and the roughness in his voice can only come from the fact he’s touching himself, too, America thinks with a sigh. “What would you have me do?”

“I want you to fuck me,” falls out of America’s mouth before he can even actually comprehend the thought, which is a little weird, but, well. He can’t be expected to actually _think_ about what he’s saying when he’s so eagerly stroking his cock, rocking his hips into his own hand while he listens to France’s delighted moan on the other end. The sound makes America shiver all over, and he wishes France was making that noise against his throat, kissing down his chest, smiling at America’s desperation.

“I cannot think of anything I want more.”

America moans a little at those words, wanting more than just a hand, and decides he’ll have to put more effort than he expected when he started stroking himself fresh out of slumber. “Hang on a sec,” he mumbles, before rolling to his right to shove open the nightstand drawer, fumbling around for a minute before he pulls out the two things he wants. The drawer shuts with a slam, and America hurries to rearrange himself on the pillows, setting his phone up against his shoulder again as he goes for his first prize, the lube.

“Okay, sorry,” America greets to the sound of delicious moans—France is always vocal, even on his own. “I had to get something.”

France hums a questioning noise, and America doesn’t answer for a minute as he spreads some lube liberally on his fingers. “Lube,” he tells France, then decides he has no more shame as he adds, “I really want you to fuck me.”

“My dearest America,” France chuckles, a little breathless, but America can’t hear shifting in the background, so he thinks France might have paused in his own fondling so he could hear more of America. “You tease me so!”

America gives a half-hearted laugh, mostly because he’s distracted with hitching his hips up right so he can rub a finger around his hole, letting out a whimper of a noise at the thought of pressing inside. It’s not the same when he does it himself, which is embarrassing to think, but it’s probably something worth noting, so he sighs, “This is better when you do it.”

“Tell me what you’re doing,” France requests, and America closes his eyes when he feels the heat rush to his cheeks. France already knows what he’s doing, he just wants to hear America talk about it, about all the filthy things he’s doing to himself that he wants _France_ to be here to do for him— _knows_ France would do for him, because France is the one that’s introduced him to half this stuff, anyway.

America takes in a breath and spreads his legs wide as he presses his first finger in, sighing at the tight fit. France would definitely comment on it, if it were his hand doing this to America, so he tries to think of all the things France would let him know, that he probably wants to hear America say. “I—I said I wanted you to fuck me,” America repeats, wetting his lips as he presses his finger in deep, to the hilt, and hums. “It’s, really tight—I dunno how anything will fit…” he murmurs, and it’s embarrassing, but France moans a little, so it must be a good dialogue; he’ll remember that one.

“What are you thinking about?” France asks, and his sounds a little distracted, so America guesses he’s teasing himself. That’s a nice thought indeed, France tracing fingertips over his cock, but refusing to outright stroke himself just yet, and America musters up the courage to move on to his second finger.

“You, doing this for me,” America tells him plainly, but hisses once he gets the second finger in. That’s _much_ tighter, a little painful, but in a pleasant kind of way. The stretch itself makes America groan, forcing himself to relax enough both to speak and move his fingers. “I love when you do this, I love feeling your— _mmh_ , fuck… I-I love it when you finger me, I love when you’re inside me,” he murmurs, trying not to huff his heavy breaths into the phone. “Are you thinking about it, too?”

France breathes a soft “ _Amérique”_ , unable to say anything else for a moment, so America focuses on stretching himself, slowly picking up a pace; his erect cock aches from neglect, but he’ll feel _so_ much better if he gets this over with, so he doesn’t dwell. Just fingers himself and waits for a reply.

“Nothing feels as good as you do, _cher_ ,” he comments softly. “The way you squeeze around me—your cock between us, you begging for more… I can’t get enough of you. I can only imagine what you’re looking like, fingers inside you, wishing you could beg me for more.”

“Would you give me more? _God_ ,” America groans, working a third finger in with the rest. He can’t help bucking his hips into his own touch, but it’s nothing like France’s, which is a real shame. But, it’ll have to do for now. “I need you.”

“I always give you what you want, do I not?” France chuckles with amusement, but it breaks off into a little hiss of pleasure. “You’re spoiled—but it feels _so good_ to be inside you, _mon amour_ , I suppose I am spoiled as well…”

America’s moved from fingering to true finger-fucking. He wonders if France can hear the sound of his slick fingers sliding in and out, or if his panting and moaning drown it out. “Mm, _fuck_ —it’s not enough,” he whimpers, reaching deep, seeking his more direct point of pleasure inside. “Wh—what would you do, to me, if you were here?”

“I wouldn’t be able to resist you,” France admits automatically. “I’d spread you wide to take me—maybe I’d pull your legs over my shoulders? _Ah_ , but then, I could not kiss those moans from your lips… I’d fill you up so beautifully—it is if you were made just for me, _mon grand_.”

America nods eagerly at that, fingers slamming into his hole over and over, but it’s really not enough, not when he can imagine how perfect France’s cock sits inside him. “Yeah, God, yeah—I love your cock, babe,” he murmurs, but lets out a particularly loud moan when his fingers brush _just_ _right_ inside. It’s perfect, so perfect, he needs more of that.

“I gotta, mmm…” America mutters, distracted as he pulls his fingers out, feeling achingly empty. His cock twitches with excitement as America reaches for the second thing he grabbed earlier: a sleek-looking prostate massager. Gifted to him, of course, by France himself, though this wasn’t a gag gift or anything of the sort—it was _expensive_ , purposely chosen and presented to him, and France was the one who helped him break it in, just in case he “didn’t know how it worked”. It’s one of his favorites, fits well enough in his palm that his hand doesn’t cramp up, and saves him the effort of having to continuously search out _that one spot_ over and over again, like he sometimes has to do with other toys.

“Just your hands?” France asks, and America bites his lip with a little bit of shame as he slicks the massager up with more lube, pressing the switch to be sure it’s got enough power—just the sound of the vibrations makes him shiver, and it’s apparently loud enough for France to hear, because he asks, “My, my, what is _that_ , _mon cœur_?”

America wets his lips, deciding to stroke his cock a bit, just to take some of the edge off. “That—that, thing, the um, massager,” he mutters, and revels in the appreciative little hum France gives.

“You really are spoiled,” France murmurs fondly, and America hopes he can remember to complain about that later, when he isn’t dying to cum.

Instead of complaining, America slowly traces his hole with the tip of the vibrator. He feels himself twitch at the threat of insertion, and takes a slow breath as he pushes it inside, bit by bit. Just sliding it inside feels good, makes it feel worth the wait, and America lets out a slow moan, an exhale, as he presses the massager inside of him until it’s properly seated.

“ _So full_ ,” America whispers, can can’t even close his mouth as he flicks the switch on. Immediately he cries out, tensing up at the intense burst of pleasure he feels, deep inside. The muscles in his stomach quiver as America decides whether to say still or rock his hips into the sensation.

He decides to reach down to fist his cock with one hand, using the other to hold the base of the massager, pressing it firmly up against his prostate. The pleasure is unreal, intense and hot and so, so good, and he barely remembers he’s on the phone until he hears soft little noises coming from the other line—France grunting as he, presumably, pleasures himself to America’s desperation.

“How close are you?” France asks, but it sounds a little bit more like a demand. America melts—not just from the strong vibrations inside him, as well as his hand furiously pumping his cock, but also at the sound of France’s voice, the little moans France lets out that America wants so desperately to taste as they kiss messily and rut like rabbits.

“So close,” America chokes out, writhing. He rocks back into the vibrations, but then wants to rock forward into his hand, so then he has to press the toy in deeper—then he starts to grind it inside, fuck, and that’s what does it.

“France, France— _fuck_ , f-fucking—“ He doesn’t know what to say, what he wants, because he wants _all of it_. He wants France to be here, fucking him with _something_ , it doesn’t matter what. He wants France to watch him moan and sob in delight as he tries to hold back, but it’s too much, it’s too much and it feels so good—

“—sound so beautiful, _mon Amérique_ , tell me, tell me what you need—“ France is murmuring, breathy and laced with moans. He’s not as loud as America, but that’s sort of understandable, America distantly thinks as he bucks, back and forth, desperate for release. France moans when America sobs out something like “ _I want_ you _—pl-please, France!_ ” and between everything else, _because_ of everything else—

“I can’t, France, I, _haa_ —I’m cumming, _fuck_ , I’m cu-u-umming!” America splutters, breathless and several octaves too high. He trembles as he spills over his hand, semen dribbling over his fingers. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes into him all at once, and America can’t even speak through his orgasm, just panting and gasping and pleading for France, France, France.

It’s a little hard to hear over the sound of his own harsh breathing, but America hears France gasping something in French that he doesn’t quite catch before he moans, _loud_. It’s a delicious sound, one America wishes he could see in person, kiss right from France’s lips. There’s also a clatter right after, and then France cursing, and America tries to swallow and relax (after shutting off the vibrator, of course) while he listens to France fumble for his phone.

“That good, huh?” America asks quietly, grinning as he relaxes into his pillows a little more. His hands are sticky with semen and lube and he honestly couldn’t give less of a fuck, because he feels _good_. France taught him that.

France chuckles, and the way he does it makes America imagine him running a hand through his hair, giving him one of those honest, sweet smiles. “You are far too much to be healthy, _mignon_ ,” he laughs, still a little breathless.

America lets France catch his breath for a moment, slowly removing the massager and sighing at the feeling of being empty. The unfortunate part about this is that France isn’t here to cuddle away the sudden emptiness that comes with the end of sex—well, masturbation, whatever. America cradles his phone a little better, listening to France shuffle around on his end of the line.

“So, how was work?” America asks quietly, and is actually surprised when France laughs.

“I knew it,” France says with a smirk that America can clearly hear. “You weren’t paying attention earlier! How long were you touching yourself?”

America feels himself blushing from the tips of his ears down to his nipples. “Hey! Don’t—shut up! It’s early!” He insists, embarrassed to be caught now that it’s over, but France’s honest laugh makes America feel a little better. Just a little bit.

“Why don’t you let me shower, and we can talk on…” the way France pauses, America has a feeling he’s gesturing his hand around, trying to think of the correct word. “The—ah, computer?”

“You mean _Skype_?” America asks with a snort, and he hears France scoff.

“Don’t act snide—so uncute,” France tuts playfully.

America laughs, moving to sit up a little. “Sure,” he agrees, deciding not to tease France mercilessly (yet). “I’m working from home today—you can keep me company!”

“Yes, yes,” France agrees, but it’s not annoyed or bothered, just fond. And probably a little tired, America thinks with a little bit of lingering embarrassment. “But I must shower first. Give me an hour?”

America grins, nodding, then remembers that France won’t be able to see that over the phone. “Yeah! Text me when you’re ready to talk—I’m gonna get cleaned up, too. Sorta made a mess…” He laughs awkwardly, but France sounds pretty amused, if his snickering is anything to go by.

“I’ll talk to you in a bit, then,” America bids casually, but stops himself from pulling the phone away from his face to add, “Hey, babe?”

“Hmm?”

“Love you.”

France makes a noise that America assumes might be a gasp, but he answers nonetheless, entirely too pleased. “ _Chéri Amérique_ ,” he sighs, pleased, “ _Je t’adore._ ”

America grins as he hangs up after that, tossing his phone aside as he stretches his arms up over his head with a yawn and a sigh. The morning is looking _far_ better than he’d expected.

**Author's Note:**

> How 2 Make Things Super Gay: always put disgustingly-mushy romance shit at the end so you can bask in the good feels after the porny bits.
> 
> Side note: "qu'est-ce que c'est" = similar to the phrase "it is what it is".
> 
> P.S: if you were like... curious... as to what Ame was using for the diddlin'.... [here's kinda what I had in mind](http://www.lovehoney.com/product.cfm?p=34280)... wink.


End file.
